To Be Continued

by James Robertson

  At last it is done. ‘You have my number now, so that either Miss Munlochy or Mrs Munlochy can contact me if for any reason Tuesday is no good.’

  ‘It will be fine,’ is the reply.

  ‘And what is your name? You have been so terribly helpful.’ As if I might put him up for Employee of the Month, when really I just want to know who to blame when everything goes wrong.

  ‘My name is Corryvreckan,’ he says, at which moment I understand that I am dealing with a lunatic. ‘We will expect you on Tuesday.’

  ‘Oh, there is one other thing –’ I start to say, but this time the line does go dead. I was going to ask about nearby bed-and-breakfast accommodation. I contemplate another call in the hope of getting through to one of the Munlochys, but am too dispirited to make the attempt.

  CONVERSATIONS WITH A TOAD: CONVERSATION #3

  Douglas Findhorn Elder opened the back door of what was half his and half his father’s house – the house in which he had grown up, which he had never really left and which, one day perhaps not too far off, would be wholly his – and looked out into the night. The moon was a not quite circular disc of pale luminosity in the October darkness. Its big face shone benignly on the stone slabs of the patio or – as it had always been known in the family – the sitootery; or – as his father used to refer to it on wintry mornings or evenings – the skitery. This was no such evening, the temperature still being unseasonably warm, but Douglas was not tempted to set foot upon that sometimes treacherous surface in any case. His single purpose was to ascertain whether his bufonidian acquaintance, Mungo Forth Mungo, was present and, if so, to invite him inside for a small soaking of wine.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ came the low and, to Douglas’s ears, sweet croak of the toad, from some black spot not far from the patio.

  ‘Ah, Mungo,’ Douglas said. ‘Good evening. Where are you?’

  ‘Here,’ Mungo said, unhelpfully.

  Douglas peered but saw nothing. He found his heart fluttering with intense anticipation. That he should be communing with a toad!

  ‘What is beautiful?’ he asked.

  ‘The moon, of course,’ Mungo replied, as he hauled himself into view over the lip of the patio.

  ‘Were you under there?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘That’s your home?’

  ‘And that’s yours. Why this perpetual astonishment at the idea that I lead a normal, regulated life?’

  ‘I apologise.’

  ‘I accept.’

  Douglas took a step beyond the door in order to get a clearer view of the moon, and the security light came on.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. Stand still and the full splendour will be restored in due course.’

  In due course it was. Man and toad, they stared together into the sky. It occurred to Douglas that, although he had often admired the moon, he had never before realised quite how lovely it was.

  ‘To think,’ said Mungo, shuffling closer, ‘that each one of us has one! Amazing, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ Douglas replied. He did not wish to be irritating, but he was confused. ‘One what?’

  ‘Moon,’ Mungo said dreamily.

  ‘Do we? Where?’

  ‘Where what?’

  ‘Where is it – where are they – kept?’

  Mungo stroked his chest with the splayed fingers of one hand. ‘In here.’

  There was something different about him. He seemed, in the moonlight, ragged at the edges. Had he been human, Douglas would have said he was in need of a haircut.

  ‘You have a moon inside you?’

  ‘Naturally. What did you think I meant?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure. Not as big as that one, presumably?’

  ‘Oh, much the same size. And it changes shape in the same way, over and over again. Sometimes it doesn’t appear to be there at all, but it is. It is always there.’

  ‘I see.’ Douglas considered how to pose his next question without causing offence. ‘Is this peculiar to toads, or does every living creature have a moon in its chest?’

  ‘Since you ask the question, I assume that you don’t feel it yourself, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah. That’s such a shame. It’s a wonderful feeling.’

  ‘You feel it?’

  ‘Oh yes. I told you before that we are uncommon. Perhaps we are even more uncommon than I thought.’

  ‘Yet you lead a normal, regulated life.’

  ‘Even the commonplace is uncommon. It has only to be recognised as such.’

  ‘There is a legend, among us humans, that you keep a jewel in your skull.’

  ‘Well, it’s easy to see how that arose. A moon is a kind of jewel, after all.’

  There were moments when Douglas felt that neither he nor the toad could have spoken. Yet this discussion was taking place in spite of that feeling. He tried to be awake, and found that he already was. Therefore he could not be dreaming.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’

  ‘I would,’ Mungo said, ‘but I have some business to attend to first.’

  ‘Take your time. I’ll go ahead and open a bottle of wine.’

  Leaving the door ajar, Douglas went inside. On a chair in the kitchen lay a bowel-screening kit, which had arrived in the post that day. He transferred it to the worktop, not wishing Mungo to spot it and ask awkward questions about what, from the information he had so far read, was going to be an awkward procedure. He prepared a dish of wine for the toad, poured himself a glass, and waited.

  Mungo did not appear.

  After twenty minutes, Douglas went to look for him.

  The toad was crouched on the tiles of the back lobby, arching his vertebral column and apparently either resisting or exerting some considerable force.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Douglas asked. He could see the rapidity of the toad’s palpitations.

  ‘I’m … fine.’ Mungo continued to strain at something. Douglas wondered if he was constipated. Then he peered a little more closely. Mungo was splitting in two, right down the middle of his back. And he was pulling at each arm, first with one hand, then with the other, as if trying to brush something off or remove a pair of lady’s evening gloves. And plucking at his throat too, like a man trying to loosen his tie.

  ‘Mungo, are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Mungo said. ‘It’s all coming along nicely.’ He was now peeling great flakes from his arms and chest and stuffing them into his mouth with hardly a pause. ‘Last of the season. Late this year,’ he mumbled, and began to shrug himself out of the rest of his skin.

  Douglas watched, fascinated. Mungo was like a worker ridding himself of his overalls at the end of a shift, the difference being that he was eating the overalls.

  When he had finished, he belched and sank down into himself. A soporific silence descended. After a few minutes Douglas was startled to discover that, although still standing, he had fallen half-asleep. He looked down at Mungo, whose eyes had glazed over. Had the toad somehow mesmerised him?

  ‘All right now?’ Douglas asked quietly.

  Something happened to Mungo’s eyes: the clarity came back.

  ‘More than,’ he said, in what was hardly more than a whisper. ‘Very nutritious, toad skin. And not just for toads.’ He fumbled around his body. ‘Look, I missed some. Want to try it?’

  Douglas hunkered down. Mungo was holding a tiny scrap towards him, something less in volume than one of the many bits of dead flesh he had chewed from his own fingernails. Yet he felt an inner revulsion and it must have shown on his face.

  ‘Are you a vegetarian?’ Mungo asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you are being unreasonable. I can think of much less palatable things to eat.’

  Still Douglas hesitated.

  ‘Some would consider such an invitation a great honour,’ Mungo said. ‘And to refuse it, a great insult.’

  What possible harm could it do? Delicately, Douglas took the offering
and put it on his tongue. Was there a momentary hint of something acidic? He couldn’t be sure. He swallowed.

  ‘I have heard,’ Mungo said, ‘that in some human societies people will pick toads up and lick them. There’s something in us that gives them a kind of … kick. I’ve never seen this revolting practice – revolting for the toad, that is – but I don’t doubt that it happens.’

  ‘Perhaps some of your moonlight gets into them,’ Douglas said.

  ‘That could be it. I understand there is a sect in a place called Arizona that goes by the name of the Church of the Toad of Light. About your offer of wine – I’m feeling quite full. Don’t let me stop you, but if you don’t mind I’ll watch – as you did just now.’

  They went into the kitchen. Douglas was surprised at how fast Mungo could move when he chose to, and this despite his recent meal.

  ‘How was your meeting with Sonya?’ Mungo inquired when they were settled, Douglas at the table and the toad wedged against the kickboard below the sink unit.

  ‘Not so good,’ Douglas said. ‘She says her son needs the car. And then she needs it. In short, I can’t have it.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Travel by other modes of transport. Buses and trains. A taxi may be necessary. I’m going to investigate the options later.’

  ‘This is in order to find this other woman. What is her name again?’

  ‘Rosalind Munlochy.’

  ‘Last night you said it would be a long journey. Where to?’

  ‘The other side of the country, and further north. The Highlands.’

  ‘Ah, the Highlands.’

  ‘You’ve heard of them?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve heard they are beautiful. Will it be cold?’

  ‘I doubt it. It’s so mild everywhere.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mungo’s expression glazed over again.

  ‘Did something happen to you just now?’ Douglas asked. ‘Your eyes changed.’

  ‘Changed?’

  ‘Became, I don’t know, less focused. But now they are as they were before.’

  ‘I was thinking. When I think deeply it is as if I go underwater. When I go underwater my eyelids slide into place. They’re transparent, so I can see where I’m going. That’s probably what you’re noticing.’

  ‘Like goggles?’

  ‘No. I have no control over them. They operate automatically, like your security light. How is your novel coming along?’

  ‘I’ve not made any progress since yesterday,’ Douglas said. ‘I’d hoped to do some writing this evening but I was distracted by a difficult telephone conversation.’

  ‘Would you care to tell me the outline of the plot?’

  ‘Are you interested?’

  ‘Why would I not be?’

  ‘Nobody else is.’

  ‘Who is nobody else?’

  ‘Sonya. And my friend Ollie.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s not to their taste.’

  ‘That’s likely, but to be honest I haven’t shared much of my work with them. I’ve not got very far with it.’

  ‘Tell me about it, as far as you have got.’

  ‘Very well.’ Douglas refilled his glass while he collected his thoughts. Then he cleared his throat and began.

  ‘The story is about a man who goes on a journey to the back of beyond. Douglas Findhorn Elder is sent on a mission which looks straightforward enough, but unexpected things happen to him along the way. Ostensibly he is a journalist whose task is to secure an interview with Rosalind Munlochy, a woman of immense wealth, power and influence who runs her complex business empire from its secluded headquarters in the Scottish Highlands. An air of mystery surrounds Munlochy, who has not been seen in public for many years and is said to have become a recluse owing to the devastating effects of a wasting disease on her appearance. In fact, Elder is a member of the British Security Services, and Munlochy is suspected of being the criminal mastermind behind a fiendish plot to destroy human civilisation by releasing a deadly virus, after which most of the planet will be transformed into an enormous wildlife park. Elder has to uncover and then disrupt Munlochy’s plans, if necessary by assassinating her. Having gained entry to her heavily defended redoubt in Glentaragar, Elder finds that Munlochy, far from being disfigured by disease, is healthy, beautiful and seductive. A deadly sexual and intellectual game of cat-and-mouse ensues, from which there can be only one victor. After three days –’

  ‘Douglas,’ Mungo said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Douglas, this is – how can I put it? – absolute pish.’

  The author blanched. ‘Oh, you think so, do you?’

  ‘I know so. As we discussed previously, books don’t have any appeal for me, but even I can tell that the narrative you have just outlined has neither artistic merit nor even the advantage of an original plot-line. How much of this drivel have you actually written?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Well, that’s a blessing.’

  ‘I’m still at the sketching-out phase.’

  ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t bother moving to the colouring-in phase. Not unless I wanted to be a laughing stock in literary circles. I assume literary circles are what you wish to move in?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, what do you want? Money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fame?’

  ‘No. I just think I have a book in me. They say everyone does.’

  ‘Leave it there, is my advice.’

  ‘You’re worse than Sonya or Ollie.’

  ‘I’m merely honest. “The toad’s tongue grows from the front of his mouth, and so he cannot lie.” Do you know that old proverb?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s because I just invented it. Please don’t take offence at my candour.’

  Douglas sighed. ‘I don’t. You’re right. I knew it was pish myself. The whole idea, I mean. No doubt that’s why I’ve only written a few hundred words.’

  ‘That much?’

  ‘You’re probably doing me a favour by being so frank.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘May I ask you something?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘How do you know all this human stuff? Literary circles and plot-lines, and so on?’

  ‘As I said before, we acquire knowledge differently from you. It’s very informal. I’ve really no idea how I know it, but I do. We’ve been around a long time, and we’ve been around you a long time too. One of my ancestors – don’t ask me which, I have no interest in genealogy – spent much of his life in the apron of a woman who was held to be a witch by the idiot peasants who surrounded her. I expect a lot of it comes from him. He had a narrow escape when they burned her. He’d gone for a nap under the kindling and only just got out in time.’

  ‘You know,’ Douglas said, ‘if you had a bunnet on your head –’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A bunnet. A flat cap. Tweed or tartan design. If you had one on your head you would be a dead ringer for Chic Murray. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Chic Murray?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Douglas! Everybody’s heard of Chic Murray.’ Mungo had no eyebrows, but he did have a bulging gland full of bufotoxin set behind each eye, and now the left one appeared to rise slightly. ‘Do you really think I’m like him?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, I’m flattered. But, Douglas, something else about this so-called novel of yours. You’re in it. You appear to be the principal character. Yet this is a work of fiction?’

  ‘It’s only a name. I thought I’d use my own until I thought of a better one. It’s not really me, that character.’

  ‘I understand authors often say that, usually disingenuously. In this instance, it is true. He certainly isn’t you, by the sound of him. But he could be. Have you thought about that? You could ditch that ludicrous plot and come up with a better one. You wouldn’t even need to use your imagination, you could simply let art imitate life. Your novel could be thinly disguised autobiography.’
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  ‘Then it wouldn’t be a novel.’

  ‘Of course it would. That’s all fiction is, isn’t it? And suppose you did go down that road, as it were. Might there be – I mean, there might be, depending upon how it developed – room for other characters based on, well, real-life acquaintances of yours. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Mungo,’ Douglas said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you angling for a part in my novel?’

  ‘Am I –? Ha! Preposterous idea! No, no, no! I meant Sonya, or this fellow Ollie, or your father. But since you mention it, the Highlands in their autumn colours would, I imagine, be rather romantic. And it is so mild! I’m not in the least bit inclined to hibernate. I have always wanted to travel,’ he added wistfully.

  ‘So you said before. Have you any idea what I mean when I talk of “a long journey”?’

  ‘I wasn’t proposing to crawl.’

  ‘Are you proposing to come?’

  ‘If I’m invited, I might consider it. Who else is going?’

  ‘Nobody. Just myself. It’s a working trip, not a jaunt.’

  ‘I see.’ Mungo studied the lino pattern for a moment. Then he said, ‘What about your father?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You can’t leave him, surely?’

  ‘He’ll be all right.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be good for him to get out of that place you’ve put him in?’

  ‘No, Mungo, it would not. And it would be very bad for me. How would I manage to interview Rosalind Munlochy and stop my father getting into trouble? That’s assuming I was able to get him to Glentaragar without incident, which would be impossible.’

  ‘There you are, talking about things being impossible again. Next you’ll be saying the whole expedition will be a disaster.’

  ‘It would be if my father came along.’

  ‘You are very hard on him.’

  ‘I am not.’ Douglas found himself growing heated. ‘Look, taking him with me is out of the question. It was bad enough having him here in the house while I tried to write. I couldn’t turn my back on him for five minutes.’

  ‘You said that before.’